


Touch

by Jinxgirl



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxgirl/pseuds/Jinxgirl
Summary: It isn't violence that scares Jessica. It's gentleness.





	Touch

Touch

It wasn’t violence or aggression that got to Jessica. That, she could handle just fine. An attempted mugging, a fist coming towards her face, blows to her ribs or even her head, all of this she could block off, keep from ever happening at all, if she was alert enough. Being fast enough, or even strong enough, wasn’t a problem- Jessica was, by the nature of her mutation, fast and strong enough to head off and defend against anyone attempting physical harm towards her. 

On the occasions where blows did land and injuries happened, that still meant little more to her than an annoyance. She healed more quickly and efficiently than most people now, and she had never been the kind of person to dwell on physical pain. If she got hurt, she dealt with it; most of the time, despite the repeated nagging of Trish, she just ignored it. Physical pain, the threat of violence or harm against her- none of that scared her. At least when someone was trying to injure you, you knew more or less what was coming, when it would end, and about how long it would take to heal. At least when someone tried to beat you unconscious or even stab or shoot at you, you knew exactly how they felt about you, in no uncertain terms. Dislike, hatred, or anger directed her way, none of that meant much to Jessica, maybe because she felt all of that to the point of numbness most of the time, anyway. Or maybe because she felt that way towards herself- so why expect differently from anyone else?

It was so much easier when someone just hit you. But what the hell did you do with someone who smiled at you, someone who reached out without a second thought about it to touch your shoulder or to introduce themselves with a shake of your hand? How were you supposed to handle a person who saw your cheek or forehead as an acceptable location for a sisterly or comforting kiss, your hair as open for stroking, your hand not too stained with others’ blood to grasp? And what, just what, was she supposed to do with people who actually wanted to put their arm around her shoulder, or god forbid, pull her into a fucking hug? 

Somehow, it was the little things, the small, friendly touches that were so damn common among most people, that terrified her more than anything. 

Jessica never talked about it. She had gotten skilled at putting up the kind of body language that warned people away before they even tried to draw close, at showing the kind of attitude, doing the kind of off putting, self-destructive things that kept people pursing their lips and shaking their heads in disgust. She was observant enough to usually be able to read the warning signs of someone approaching. Then she could back away, stiffen enough to discourage, or quickly say something sharp enough to distract and put up defenses. 

For the most part, it worked. People avoided her. People saw her as one step above trailer trash, a washed up drunk with no tact, no heart, and a dislike, rather than a fear of their proximity. And that was exactly what Jessica wanted. 

Trish knew different, of course. But Trish had always pushed her boundaries, softened up the edges that Jessica tried so hard to keep firmly and rigidly in place. Trish knew of Jessica’s fear, and maybe she had her own guesses, but she had never been able to get Jessica to acknowledge why she never returned her hugs, why she never touched first and pulled back from Trish’s touch. She had never been able to get Jessica to explain why. 

How could Jessica explain to her how difficult it was to be expected, by stupid societal conventions, to allow the touch of a stranger, to let someone into her personal space who didn’t know her, who she didn’t trust, whose true intentions or feelings towards her she couldn’t know? Something like a handshake or a pat on the hand, things that most people did so automatically, was to Jessica a forced intimacy, as though the person were sending out a message to her that they knew and liked her with their touch. Jessica endured the touch of strangers with the overwhelming feeling that she was being lied to, with just a brief contact of skin.

Other physical gestures could cause her to flash back in time to another person, other hands on her skin, back in a time she had been unable to step back or speak out, no matter how desperately she wanted to. No matter how much her skin screamed at Kilgrave’s touch, Jessica could only smile, responding with the forced pleasure and invitation he had forced upon her. His touching had almost always been gentle, but she had hated every second, had felt with each squeezing of her hand, each kissing of her lips or caress of her face that a piece of her soul was being murdered with every act of her forced compliance. 

She couldn’t help sometimes but remember him, especially when someone’s touch came by surprise. 

But maybe the worst of it at all was the touch of the people she did know, the people who never reached out to her without making sure she saw it coming, without giving her the time to step away or say no. The worst of it came from the people who mattered, the people she cared about.

But it really wasn’t people at all, not when only one person applied. It was Trish. Just Trish. 

And she could never make her understand, could never have hurt her by explaining how it made her feel when Trish smiled at her and stood close, when she put her arm through Jessica’s in her casual way or brushed back a strand of her hair. She could never put words to how it felt when Trish’s arms enveloped her, drawing her in close, actually wanting her near, making Jessica promises both spoken and silent of being there for her, of her feelings for her, of how to her, if not to Jessica herself, Jessica mattered. How as intended as all this was to make Jessica feel good, to feel safe and accepted, even loved, all it did was hurt her more deeply than any punch ever could.

Because Jessica knew damn well that she didn’t fucking deserve it. 

But she couldn’t say any of that. Not to Trish. All she could do was stand stiffly, enduring Trish’s caring, forcing herself bare it, no matter how guilty and worthless it made her feel. No matter how much she would prefer to be hit, any time.


End file.
